


shields

by batboycentral



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Cutting, Damian Wayne is a good brother, Depression, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic depiction of self harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jason Todd is a good brother, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Drake Has a Bad Time, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump, Tim gets a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batboycentral/pseuds/batboycentral
Summary: tim has been self harming for a long time. it goes too far. dick comes to his rescue.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 21
Kudos: 282





	1. sleeping ute

**Author's Note:**

> HI FOLKS graphic depiction of self harm in this chapter !!! blood description as well !!! proceed with caution

Tim had done a bad thing and regretted it very, very much.

He had not meant to put himself on this life track, though it would seem the universe had been lining up this fate for him from the get-go; Tim was aware of how much baggage he had accumulated throughout the years. His mental health was not spectacular, but he was fine with this end if it meant making the people he loved happy.

He had decided that this was enough for him. Tim did not need things like _validation_ or _comfort_ or _conversation_ because he was sure of his control of himself. He would do what he had always learned from his parents (and later Batman): keep it to yourself. It was not becoming of young men to cry and complain, and besides, it was not as if the things that plagued him were so serious that they needed to be shared. He had always been perfectly fine on his own.

Until now.

It turned out that keeping everything that had ever happened to him suppressed was excruciatingly painful—he felt a constant pressure inside, his lungs aching as if they were about to burst. It was horrifying. At one point, Tim had been genuinely concerned he might actually explode. He had been shaking in class, heart racing and eyes blurry. It was like he had entered some sort of place he should not be, that he could not come back from, and he could not feel anything—until he balled his fists, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

The sensation was so clear in that moment, so mysteriously _relieving_ that once he started he did not stop. Tim had kept his hands squeezed white-knuckled the whole rest of the class. It felt grounding, and it felt _good_ , even though it hurt. When he uncurled his fists, little red crescents awaited him. He knew they would not last, but what disturbed him the most was that the sight of them was almost _satisfying_.

Television and the Internet had left Tim no stranger to the idea of self-harm. He had not expected to be the part of the population that _liked_ it, but it felt like the pressure seeped out every time he cut and it became that much easier to breathe. The best part was that no one had to know—he was keeping it to himself, in a way that would not make his parents turn their noses in the way they did when he was upset. It was like a best friend, an intimate secret just for him.

He continued to cut, but became less frequent when he became Robin. Fighting bad guys still hurt, and even though it was less, it was _natural_. The pain of occasional beatings slowly replaced his man-made suffering, and for a little while, he felt it was nearly enough to leave it behind. But as time went on, events shook him and people died, and his world began to tip downward. He was sliding back, and it was _not_ enough. It was never enough. The need for release in the pit of his stomach had only grown.

Which is what led him to where he was now—massively bleeding into his apartment bathtub and crying hysterically.

He had recently done a good job of keeping it to himself. Tim had not spoken with Dick, Jason or Bruce in nearly three weeks aside from occasional comments or orders on patrol. Thinking of them made his stomach churn. He wanted desperately to feel the same confidence and bond he had had with them, but he loved them too much to subject them to the ugliness stewing inside him. Tim knew they could handle it—he did not doubt his family’s capability and mental fortitude. Even so, it would be a burden they did not need on their shoulders no matter how much they protested.

As a result, he had been cutting at a nearly concerning frequency—he would often sit in his bathroom more than once a day, even if he had been on patrol. The severity of it all loomed in Tim’s peripheral vision, and he pretended not to see it.

That night, though, Tim could not ignore it. It had been a hard night, full of unhappy board members during the day and maniacal villains during the night. He had only wanted just a little deeper, just a little bit harder—until the next thing he knew he had gone _too_ deep and _too_ hard. Dark red blood was beginning to gush uncontrollably out of the veins on his right arm.

He was alone in his apartment. Calling 911 was out of the question—Tim was CEO of Wayne Enterprises. If it came out that such an important figure was so unstable (as much as Tim liked to think he had control, he recognized in this moment that he definitely did _not_ ) everything would fall apart. WE’s reputation would be unrecoverable.

Tim silently cursed himself for his rapidly escalating mistake. He slid over to the counter to grab a hand towel and wrap it around his wrist. It stung bitterly. He held his wrist over the bathtub to collect the blood, and the red made his stomach turn.

The towel was beginning to soak. He could not fix this alone—he needed to call for help. Tim momentarily let go of his bleeding arm to pull his cell phone out of the pocket of his sweats. Red smudges obscured parts of the screen, but his muscle memory made up for what he could not see as he dialed Dick’s number.

The phone line rang, echoing against the white tile surrounding him. He hoped to God he would pick up.

“Hey, Tim!” came Dick’s voice over the speaker.

“Hey. Are you—Are you busy right now?” He physically cringed at how awkward he sounded trying to pretend he was not having the worst mental breakdown of his life.

The phone shifted. “I just got back from patrol. What’s up?”

“If you have c-case stuff to do, then, like, it’s okay—”

“No, it’s really not a big deal,” Dick said, sounding concerned. Tim was not as good of an actor as he had thought he was. “Tim, what’s going on?”

Tim’s voice caught in his throat. “I think I fucked up, Dick,” he nearly sobbed. “I think I really fucked up.”

“Where are you? What happened?” His brother’s voice had changed, the same way it always changed when someone needed to be rescued. Tim heard it all the time when they were Nightwing and Red Robin, but loathed the idea that _he_ was now the distressed citizen. His fate was in other people’s hands.

“I’m at my apartment,” Tim choked out. His brain was starting to become fuzzy. “Please hurry.”

All he heard from there were the sounds of Dick’s motorcycle revving its engine and his own horribly panicked breathing. Tim tried over and over again to steady himself, stabilize his breath, but every time found himself lost in the disgusting sight and smell of his own blood pooling in his bathtub and staining his clothes. He gripped his wrist as tight as he possibly could.

Time seemed to pass in slow motion. He was horribly nauseous. Nothing had ever felt this bad. The wound stung bitterly, and it _hurt_ —Tim was dimly aware of the irony, but too scared to care.

The sound of the window opening registered in his ears, and he yelled for Dick. He was starting to slump forward from exhaustion. Tim felt gentle hands on him and heard his brother speaking, but was not focusing on the words, only on the movements he made. He was intentional, and even in the state he was in, Tim was amazed by Dick’s poise and capability.

He hardly felt the pinch of the needle when he began sewing stitches into Tim’s arm. Tim was shaking and trying to hide it. He could not even look Dick in the eyes even as he was wrapping his arm with gauze.

Dick secured the wound, and sat back across from him on the floor. His shoulders slumped forward as he let out a huge breath. They were both sweating and exhausted from the effort and heat of the moment. The only sound in the apartment was their labored, shaky breathing.

“Thanks for coming,” Tim finally said after a long stretch of silence between them. His voice was small, and he _felt_ small, almost shrinking under the weight of Dick’s stare back at him.

He stared at him for a long moment, eyes intensely searching for some sort of reasoning beyond Tim’s earlier description of ‘just an accident’. He had no idea what his brother was thinking of him, and his stomach lurched at the ideas his brain was coming up with—until Dick suddenly burst into tears, making Tim want to cry, too. His cheeks burned with shame. His ugliest secret was exposed to his brother in what could be considered the worst way possible.

After a moment, Dick finally spoke through his tears. “You nearly scared me to _fucking_ death!”

Tim could not help but flinch. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t trust me,” he said, voice watery. Tim furrowed his brows, prompting Dick to elaborate. “You don’t tell me anything. You could have _died_ tonight.”

“Dick—”

“I haven’t heard from you in _weeks_ ,” Dick cried. “And if you hadn’t had an emergency like this, then you would have just kept it that way.”

It was true that things had been different after Bruce had ‘died’ and Tim had become Red Robin. They had already made their peace, but could never become as close as they once had been—evidence of distrust showed itself every now and then despite their best efforts to move past all that had happened that year.

Tim had not really recovered from the events he had been through; to be recovered would mean healing at all. He had skated by, slipped under the radar, addressing only what Dick had come to him with. He did not blame him—Dick had had a lot going on, and Tim was doing his best to avoid nearly all human contact.

“I love you, Dick,” Tim said quietly. “That’s why I haven’t said anything.”

Dick looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. “You’re my _brother_ , Tim. I’ll always be here for you—All I want to do is _help you,_ ” he pleaded. Guilt dragged at him like a heavy weight. He knew Dick would go through hell for the people he loved, and did not want to see him tear himself apart for somebody like Tim.

“Will you please come home?” Dick asked, eyes glittering with darkness.

He wanted so badly to be with them, to be near them and cherished by them the way they cherished each other—but he knew it was a fantasy, the kind he used to have when he was a little kid still waiting for his mom and dad to come home. They would take him to a baseball game, and his dad would put him on his shoulders so he could see. Jack and Janet would end up on the kiss cam and they would tell him that they were staying, for good this time, and that they loved him, that they had not _wanted_ to leave him behind.

Tim was far too rational a person to ever think that would have ever come true, but he had liked to pretend, just for a little bit, just to imagine what it would be like. He could not say he had not done the same thing since being taken under Bruce’s care—on his good days, he would think about the times Jason chose to eat dinner with him, or the times Dick took him out for training, or when Bruce had enveloped him in a hug.

It would not happen, though. He was sure of it. If he had ever been worthy of such a ridiculous thing then he would have had it by now. Entertaining the possibility of _care_ or _comfort_ from a family was more painful than simply dismissing it. Tim tried to think of an excuse.

“What about Damian?” he asked. The two boys had openly fought in the past, but over time their raging feud had simmered down to embers. Now, when he saw Damian, it was cold, brief, like talking to a smaller Batman. When they worked together, they worked in silence.

“He’s gotten a _lot_ better,” Dick said. Tim raised an eyebrow. He was not sure he could endure their cold war for much longer. “I think you guys would get along really well if you set aside your differences.”

Tim grimaced. “He literally tried to kill me, like, _seven_ times. I’m not really—”

“Please, Tim,” Dick pleaded, and his gaze on him was starting to make him tear up. “He’s gotten so much better. Please have faith in me for this.”

He knew Dick had been working with Damian, but was unsure to what extent. Tim wondered what it would be like to go back to the manor, and suddenly realized he did not know. Going back meant potentially walking in blind. It could have changed dramatically. It could be the same. He did not know, and that unknown began to eat away at him.

“I don’t know, I have work and—”

“I can’t do this without you,” Dick said, cutting him off quietly. A flicker of emotion passed over his face—pain, sadness, fear, all rolled into one tight split second Tim almost missed. “I’m sorry for crying. I just—Doing this, reconstructing the family, it’s—It’s hard. It’s really hard, because _you’re not there_.”

Tim’s throat began to burn as he strained not to cry. Dick needed him. Tim was so wrapped up in his human invisibility that he had not considered someone genuinely _needing_ his presence. He had always been there for their nightlife, never the day. He had not expected any of them to have time for him, so he left them be. Tim’s presence was _missed_ , and the emotions that that notion stirred were enough for him to break.

He let out a breathless whimper, and Dick immediately scooted himself over and wrapped his arms around him. Tim clung to him like a rock in the raging ocean. He was a mountain, and Tim held still as he began to cry, hoping that if he stayed like this he could feel this warm and safe forever.

Dick was whispering words of encouragement, but he was too busy soaking up the touch to register what he was saying. He could not help but feel hopeful. What ever going back home meant, Dick would be there. He would not be alone.

“I’ll go,” Tim said, voice watery. “I’ll come back.”

He felt Dick breathe a huge sigh of relief. “Okay. Okay. Thank you, I—”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “This—I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Tito,” Dick said, and Tim wanted to cry all over again. It had been a long time since he was _Tito_. The bats’ sense of community had been brief, muddled by awful happenings that Tim had still not recovered from, but it had felt _good_ , like something he had never felt before. The fallout of Bruce’s death had left Tim on his own, and reacclimating to loneliness had been strenuous. He had forgotten what it felt like to belong somewhere.

“We can go tonight, or in the morning. Either way, I’m going to be here with you,” Dick said, and Tim nodded against his chest. “What do you want to do?”

Tim did not want to deal with seeing everyone again in the middle of the night after a horrible mental breakdown. “Tomorrow,” he decided. There was also the unspoken issue of his apartment—half of the entire unit smelled of blood, and his bathtub was full of it. They could not exactly leave it this way, but neither of them wanted to talk about it. Tim felt it was better to just set it aside for the time being.

Dick began to rise, still holding Tim, carrying him as if he were a baby. He began to protest, but Dick cut him off. “Just let me hold you like this, okay?” He sounded a little choked up. “Just for a little bit.”

Tim laid his head back down, not wanting to make Dick more upset. Truthfully, he relished the warmth and security. He was extremely comfortable—and also extremely exhausted. Dick seemed to sense this, or perhaps he was tired, too, because they began moving, ending up somewhere incredibly soft. Tim was still held to Dick’s chest, where he melted into an easy, dreamless sleep. 


	2. speak in rounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tim comes home to some familiar faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no cw except for implied/referenced self harm. this one is nice :)

Rain gently drummed against the windows of the dimly lit apartment. The smell of summer rain wafted through the air, and dusty light peeked into Tim’s bedroom as he woke. Someone, presumably Dick, was in the kitchen cooking.

It was all so peaceful that at first Tim did not register the searing, prickling pain shooting and clawing its way through his right arm—memories of the night before came back to him in nauseating detail. He hissed, grabbing his wrist but quickly letting go again. Grabbing it was decidedly worse.

He grit his teeth and sat up. This would just be another consequence of what he had done. He felt a pang of guilt when he remembered Dick’s face from the night before. He definitely deserved whatever sting might accompany this wound.

Tim also remembered that he had promised to go back to the manor. He expected to be filled with dread—instead, he buzzed with anxiety, and the sudden adrenaline made it a little easier to ignore the shooting pain in his wrist. He got up, heading to the kitchen, where he found Dick loading the dishwasher.

“Good morning,” Dick said, looking up from the sink. “How do you feel?”

It took him a moment to process, but once he did, Tim just shrugged. “When are we going over?”

Dick frowned, looking concerned. “Well, it’s nearly noon, so we can go over at lunchtime, if that’s okay.” Tim nodded in agreement. Glancing at the clock, if was about fifteen till, “Why don’t you get some clothes and stuff?”

Wordlessly, he wandered back into his room. He was filled with static energy, a bubble about to burst. Tim sat in front of the bottom drawer of his dresser and began grabbing clothes at random to take with him. His fingers brushed the wooden back of the drawer. Tim paused.

He knew that taped to the back somewhere along the panel was something horrifyingly elusive—a spare razor blade. After last night’s fiasco, the thought of cutting again made him feel sick, but something inside of Tim began to nag at him.

Was he going to continue self harming? It was surely risky business, given that his family was definitely on to him now. On the other hand, Tim seriously doubted that they would have a strong reaction if they knew. He would be benched for a while, for sure, but Tim had become _very_ good at faking an outward appearance. It would not be a challenge to ‘recover’—but he pondered for a moment if that would even be the right choice.

Taking in a hesitant breath, his hands traveled to the smooth metal bump on the back of the drawer and pried it off. Deep, deep in his bag, he hid it, deciding to take it. Just in case. He could decide whether or not to truly quit later—the present situation was about the family, and Dick needed him.

He finished shoving his clothes into the duffel bag and migrated back to the front room where Dick was waiting. He looked anxious, and while Tim did not blame him, he could not meet his eyes. An uncomfortable, awkward tension had filled the air.

Dick cleared his throat. “I cleaned the bathroom.”

“Oh,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. The image of his brother scrubbing his bathroom with bleach to get out bloodstains Tim had made flashed through his mind like a shockwave.

Dick must have seen him physically flinch. “Sorry, I mean—I just didn’t want to leave it like that… Um, do you want to go?”

Tim just nodded. He felt like his throat was full of glue, his thoughts wading through the sticky sludge just to be spoken.

The two traveled back to the manor in Tim’s car—a very ugly Chevy Cruze he had bought out of necessity when he became CEO. There was no need for anything expensive; he had needed a car, and needed one on a tight time restraint. Dick drove. His driving was always so steady (unlike Bruce’s) that the motions and gentle sounds of rainfall outside had Tim nodding off by the time they pulled around into the carpark.

Dick gently shook Tim awake. For a moment, he nearly felt close to peace. Dick did not take his hand off of Tim’s shoulder, and it actually felt _good_ , like the hug had last night. He silently felt guilty. He should not like this situation—he met his brother’s eyes, suddenly nervous about going inside.

Dick squeezed his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

The door was answered by not Alfred but _Damian_ , to Tim’s surprise. The foyer felt barren—it was a large foyer, and very rarely actually had people in it, but it felt disconnected. It was quiet, and everything was still, creating a silent tension that lurked just below their ankles.

Damian frowned at the both of them. “What the _fuck_ , Richard?”

Dick’s face broke out into a grin as he engulfed his youngest brother in a giant hug despite his protests. The tension in the air dissipated as the space was filled with Dick’s bright laughter and warmth.

Honestly, Tim was struck more by the fact that he had addressed Dick as _Richard_. He was used to a last-name basis with Damian, and had observed as much the last time he had been home—well, the last time he had been home long enough to hear conversations longer than two sentences.

“You call him _Richard_ now?” Tim asked, utterly bewildered.

Damian finally shoved Dick off of him. “Of course, _Drake_ ,” he spit back. Tim had expected as much, although it still felt bad to be the one always left out—until he saw Dick giving Damian a look in his peripheral vision. Damian narrowed his eyes at Tim, staring in silence, quietly assessing him. “… _Timothy._ ”

Was he in the Twilight Zone? Tim turned to look at Dick, opening his mouth to say something—but nothing came out. He could only stand there and gape a little while Dick gave his best _I Told You So (Older Sibling Edition)_ face.

“Master Tim,” came Alfred’s voice from the hallway. The butler approached, seeming to focus directly on Tim—it was Tim’s turn to be wrapped in a hug. He felt stiff and awkward with all the touching. He was not used to any of this. “It is quite good to see you. You have been away for quite a long time.”

Tim felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. He had hardly talked to Alfred for anything besides the nightlife in a long while. “Um…” The words still felt stuck in his throat. “Uh… Crazy week,” he settled on.

“Timothy, you are dressed inappropriately,” Damian interrupted. “It is much too warm for that kind of dress.”

Tim’s mind went blank. Despite having every contingency plan that could possibly be conceived, he was never, ever prepared for questions about his self-harm. It was so secret— _supposed_ to be secret—that he had never needed to explain himself.

“He’s—” Dick began, but Tim spoke at the same time.

“I’m, um— Cold?” he said impulsively. Damian raised an eyebrow. “All the t—Always. I’m cold. I have, um… Chronic… Cold… Disorder.”

“That’s not _real_ ,” Damian stiffened. He simultaneously looked exactly like Bruce and exactly like… well, a _child_. It was almost nice to see, until he remembered that he was _lying_ to a _child_ about the _absolute clusterfuck_ that had occurred the night previous. He felt his skin crawl.

“I need to pee,” Tim blurted out, practically running away from the other three and into the small half bath down the hall.

He quickly shut the door, pressing his back against it and heaving a sigh. It had not been more than ten minutes and he was running away. Tim should have prepared for this—as he was mentally chastising himself, he heard his brothers speaking from the other room. He pressed his ear to the door to listen.

“-Told you it wouldn’t work,” said Damian, and Tim furrowed his brows. What kind of scheme was he planning this time? “He _hates_ me. I can’t change his mind, and there’s nothing I can do.”

His heart dropped a little. Tim had never hated Damian. He had hated himself for thinking he had a permanent place somewhere. Damian had been a child, _was_ a child, so vulnerable to making mistakes, and he had treated him like he had been a fully aware adult—Tim shook his head, clearing his thoughts before guilt dragged him into a spiral.

“Just apologize,” came Dick’s voice. “Treat him just like you treat everyone else. Trust me, it’s what he needs. Your new objective is to get along with Tim.” He was not sure what that exactly meant, but assumed it was some therapeutic thing the family had started doing that he was not in on.

Tim heaved a sigh. All of this was so awkward and was burning a hole inside him. He wanted to just sit in this bathroom and die, his existence melting into the grout and becoming one with the tile. He wanted to never think again, and he felt so _tired_ —Tim left the bathroom anyway. He had to try, for Damian’s sake. As he walked up to the pair, he pondered what he could possibly say that would not turn this situation awkward. Damian was pretending not to hold his breath—this was dangerous territory.

“Am I crazy,” he began, “Or, like… I’m pretty sure I’ve witnessed Bruce ask a waiter for a ’Shirley Template’?”

Playing to the lighter side of things seemed to work, because Dick immediately burst into laughter that filled the whole room.

“YES! He fucking _has!_ He does it occasionally at galas because he _knows_ it _sends_ me,” Dick said, grinning widely. His joy was always contagious, and Tim could not help but crack a smile himself.

Damian was quiet for a moment. “…What is a ’Shirley Template’?”

Tim’s smile widened. Of course he did not know. When would he have ever had a Shirley Temple? For whatever reason, seeing Damian be a _kid_ made Tim feel warm inside.

“A mispronunciation of Shirley Temple,” he explained. Damian met him with a blank stare, and Tim’s eyes darted over to Dick, who was looking at him, too. He knew instantly what they were both thinking. “How much Sprite is in this house?”

Dick’s eyes gleamed. He was always excited to show them new things. “I don’t know, but we can get some!” he practically yelled. “I don’t know how to tend bar and _neither should you guys_ but I’ll go ask Jason!” He was already moving down the hall, bounce in his step.

“Does _Jason_ know how to tend bar?” Tim asked skeptically.

“I dunno, but I’m not asking _Bruce!_ ” He could not help but laugh as his brother loudly sang ‘Animal Crackers In My Soup’. _Dick needs some cheering up after last night_ , Tim decided. He was glad at least one of them was having fun.

However, the excitement in the air quickly dried out as soon as Dick was gone. Awkward silence filled its absence, and Tim felt the sudden need to say something.

“Listen, Damian, I— like, I don’t know,” he fumbled. Words were not coming to him. “I wanted to apologize for all the shit that happened. I wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.” He felt nervous, like if he said another word it would once more become a battleground.

Damian paused, and Tim expected anger, sarcasm, bitterness, but was instead met with bewilderedness. “What are you talking about? I tried to murder you more than once,” he said.

Tim bit his lip. _I want to murder me, too_ , he wanted to say, but swallowed thickly instead. “Well, yeah. It’s just—When you stopped, I kept—”

“—Nonsense,” Damian said, cutting him off. Tim blinked in surprise. “It is I who should be the one apologizing.” Seeing Damian in distress made him feel sick.

He stood up a little straighter, the way he did when addressing Bruce. “I have been learning things. What happened was wrong. Therefore, I am apologizing,” Damian said. From what Tim had heard before, he had seen this coming miles away, yet felt the whiplash nonetheless when his brother said those words. They were in completely uncharted territory, a complete 180 from where they had been a year ago.

Tim stuck out his hand for him to shake. “Truce?” Damian took it, nodding, and they shook hands. He felt a weird chill run down his spine as he realized that Dick had been right. Damian _was_ better, and he had not just been saying things to make Tim come home. He could not help but smile a little. Dick really was the greatest of all of them.

“Haha, you’ve grown since I last saw you,” Tim said, breaking the silence. He immediately wished he had picked something smarter to say.

Damian looked offended. “You saw me in June, and I am nearly as tall as you are!”

“Puberty does that to kids,” Tim said, finally starting to feel relaxed.

“A shame you never got to experience it, then,” Damian said primly. Tim laughed. He wished it would stay this easy forever.

In the corner of his eye, Jason and Dick approached from down the hall. Guilt crept up on him again as he thought about Jason. Tim had worked with him recently, but had been practically ghosting everyone who tried to talk to him personally. It showed in the bitter lines of his brother’s mouth. Jason and Bruce’s relationship had always been turbulent, and Tim was the main proponent of healing between them. Dick had not been exaggerating when he had said that reconstructing the family was tough without him—the task in it of itself was nearly impossible. He cringed to think of the amount of fights and resentment he had been absent for.

To his surprise, he was being surrounded by a hug. The secure hold of muscle told him it had been initiated by Jason himself. Tim melted into it, taking the moment to just be grateful his brother did not hate him.

They departed, and the four of them headed toward the parlor, where they found the door locked, sending Jason and Dick into a fit of giggles. Damian looked at him, almost rolling his eyes and making Tim laugh.

“So this is alcohol,” Damian said dryly.

Dick shook his head. “It’s actually non-alcoholic.”

“Then why are we making it?” he asked, and Jason began to laugh hysterically as they entered the kitchen.

Tim was the last one in, and lingered in the doorway. It felt good seeing them all like this— _happy_ , carefree, and he did not want to ruin such a perfect moment with the baggage he had arrived with.

Dick caught his eye and smiled knowingly, waving him over. “Come get your template!” Tim grinned and padded over, hoisting himself up to sit on the kitchen counter.

Jason had pulled out a 2L of Sprite from the fridge, and was now attempting to open it. Dick cheered him on, while Damian criticized his technique and demanded he let him do it instead. Something warm had begun sitting in Tim’s chest, small but new and exciting. He wondered if this was what hope felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey thanks for reading i know everyone wants time jail but this is my party and you're the piñata

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys thanks for reading don’t forget to subscribe i make new videos every single week and you'll get an extra greeting in the beginning of every single video if you like this video give it a thumbs up 1 like = 1 bat boy hug let me know what you thought in the comments below and ill see you in the next one bye


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